


Breathless

by BlueVase



Category: Call the Midwife
Genre: F/M, canon-divergence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-22
Updated: 2017-11-25
Packaged: 2019-01-04 00:30:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 18,973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12157929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueVase/pseuds/BlueVase
Summary: After Sister Bernadette has been diagnosed with TB, she decides it is time to put into words how she feels about the doctor, and goes to him to tell him in person. Season 2 Canon divergence, because what would have happened if Sister B and Doctor T had given in to their love for each other before the misty road?TW: Sister B has a potentially fatal illness, and thinks about the possibility of her dying.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Based on an anonymous ask: “just a Turnadette fic idea, something old school when she's still a nun. I read through the Lips Touch series which led to the one where she has a panic attack, have you thought of writing it again to where there actually is a kiss, maybe more than just a simple peck?;)”. I didn’t do another panic attack, but we are talking some old-school Turnadette after the TB diagnosis. I hope you’ll like it! Thanks to @purple-roses-words-and-love for betaing.  
> On the nonnatus kettle scale, I’d say this is 3 kettles, maybe 4.

_Tuberculosis._

The word kept bouncing around in her head till it became almost all-consuming.

Sister Bernadette turned on her back and stared at the ceiling. It was late, and those who were not on call had gone to bed long since. She’d retired hours ago herself, but had not yet fallen asleep. She’d prayed for hours, hoping that the familiar words would allow her consciousness to slowly fall away, but to no avail. God had been silent these past few months no matter how much she begged and pleaded and wept, and he was silent now, too. Instead of blessed rest, her prayers had only brought her a faint twinge of anger, and a powerful surge of despair.

How could she doze knowing that the thing that rattled inside her lungs like a spare penny was an affliction that could very well kill her?

How could she sleep knowing that a potentially fatal disease held her body hostage?

And how could she relax when her mind kept going back to his sweet face?

Doctor Turner had examined her today, but she’d only felt the cold kiss of his instrument, never the warmth of his fingertips. He had been so close to her, and yet she could not step into his embrace and bury her face in his jumper, could not draw a little bit of comfort from him as her mind, still reeling, tried to encompass the enormous truth now before her.

She could die.

She could die without ever having told him that she loved him.

It was unbearable.

She threw the blankets off and sat up, fumbling for her glasses with trembling hands. Her breath was coming in short gasps, but whether from fear or disease, she didn’t know.

She smoothed the folds out of her nightdress, put on a pair of stockings, then slipped outside with her shoes in hand.

It was surprisingly easy to leave the convent. Once, on the stairs, a floorboard creaked, and she waited with baited breath, but nothing stirred. Sister Bernadette took her coat, then her bike, and pedalled away.

Soon, her lungs were burning, but she didn’t slow till she had reached the surgery.

She knew it was folly, knew he was probably at home, with Timothy, where he should be, but she would check here first. She had to talk to him without Sister Julienne present, had to speak the thoughts that had weighed on her mind for weeks now, before it was too late.

The wind almost tore her cap off, so she plucked it from her head and stuffed it in her pocket.

 _Maybe God will strike you down for this,_ a mean voice told her as she parked her bike. She shook her head; she didn’t believe in that kind of God.

To her surprise, the door of the surgery was open. The hallway was dark, with splayed shadows on the floor and walls, but warm light spilled from underneath the doctor’s office.

_Thank God._

Sister Bernadette walked faster, shoes slapping the tiles in an almost frantic rhythm. The door handle was colder than ice as she closed her hand around it, and for one moment, she hesitated. She thought of turning back, but surely he’d already heard her footsteps, and would come to see who would visit the surgery at this time…

She pushed the handle down and stepped inside before her nerve failed her.

“I’m sorry, I…” Doctor Turner said, snapping his head up and tearing his eyes away from the patient’s file that lay before him. His voice faltered when he saw who it was. “Sister Bernadette,” he whispered, getting to his feet so fast that he almost knocked over his ashtray. Cigarette butts lay curled within, numerous as the petals of a dying flower.

She closed the distance between them and threw her arms around his chest, hugging him to her very tightly. She inhaled the scent of his aftershave and cigarettes, felt his warmth on her wind-chilled cheek, and sobbed.

For a heartbeat, he stood petrified. Then, his arms closed around her. One hand cupped her head protectively, fingers caressing her hair. He kissed the top of her head.

“I’m so afraid,” she whispered, tears fogging her glasses, “and I couldn’t bear the thought that I could never say this to you out loud.” She wanted to say much more to him, but she couldn’t find the words, and she was so breathless that she couldn’t have spoken even if she’d known what to say.

“I am afraid, too,” he confessed. She could feel his voice rumble through his chest.

She tilted her head back so she could look at him, but her glasses were too smeared with her tears. She took them off and pushed them in the same pocket that held her cap. “When you examined me today, I was so ashamed, and… I prayed for you not to touch me, because I didn’t know what I would do if you did, but at the same time, I wanted nothing more but for your fingers to slip, because…”

“Because?” he asked, eyes filled with something infinite.

“Because there is something inside me that comes awake when you’re near, and it is stronger than anything I’ve ever known. Because I love you.”

“Oh, God,” he whispered.

“And now I’m afraid that there’s no time anymore,” she said, breath hitching as another sob threatened to overtake her. “That’s why I wanted you to touch me today: because I might die, and then you’ll be left with only the memory of my hand in yours.”

“But you can’t die,” he said, embracing her so hard that it almost hurt.

She took his hand and intertwined her fingers with his, pressing her healed palm against his calloused one. “But I might, and to do it with only the ghost of your touch… I know now that that is not enough,” she confessed, not daring to look at him, cheeks flushing.

“But your vows…”

“I believe in a God of love and mercy. I believe that he can forgive when we sin out of love, and what is this if not love?”

“You don’t know what it means to me when you say that,” he said, voice thick, thumb stroking her knuckles.

She placed his hand on her chest. “Please touch me,” she whispered.

He stroked her clavicle, thumb dipping below the neckline of her nightgown. His fingers were rough, but his touch was very gentle as his hands touched her shoulders, skimmed her neck.

Doctor Turner looked at her with something written in his eyes which she could not name as one hand pushed underneath her nightdress and touched her between her shoulder blades, where he had placed his stethoscope before.

“Are you sure?” he asked.

Sister Bernadette wanted to kiss him then, but how could she press her lips to his with this infernal disease coating her tongue?

She tugged at his jumper, placed her hands flat against his chest, feeling his warmth through the layers of clothing he wore. “I am completely sure,” she said, and pushed his breeches from his shoulders.

He stepped back from her so he could undo his tie, so he could pull off his jumper and his shirt. As soon as the fabric had pooled at his feet she pressed herself against him, tracing circles on his chest. He was warm, and hairier than she’d expected.

He kissed her throat, very softly, the hand that wasn’t on her back touching her hip.

She placed her hand on the nape of his neck, head lolling back as pleasure bloomed in her belly.

He walked her back till her legs hit his desk, then lifted her so she could sit. The wood was hard and cold, but he was warm as he touched her, still so tentatively, as if he was afraid she would change her mind.

She took her nightgown and hitched it up, then slung her legs around the doctor, drawing him close. “Anything less is not enough,” she told him, kissing his hand.

She held on to him as they made love, and he held on to her, both afraid that the other would disappear if they let go. Not even when she was overcome with pleasure and felt weightless did she let go.

He almost collapsed on top of her when he reached his completion. She cupped the back of his head with one hand, fingers threading through his hair.

“You can’t die,” he whispered, and then started to cry, holding her with shaking arms.

She was no stranger to seeing grown men cry; in her capacity as a nurse, she’d seen the toughest of men reduced to tears more than once. But now it was not just a patient she held, but the man she loved, and his anguish almost undid her.

She took his face between her hands and forced him to look at her. “I’m not going to die,” she told him, voice almost harsh with determination. “Do you hear me? I’m not going to die. I’m going to come back for you, and for Timothy.” She kissed his eyelids, his cheek, then rocked him and hummed a psalm in his ear as he tried to calm down.

There was only room in her head for four words now.

_I will not die._

 


	2. Chapter 2

Patrick held the steering wheel very tightly, even though the autumn weather made it feel like ice. He couldn’t think about his cold hands, or about the patients he had to see tomorrow. There was only room for one person right now: Sister Bernadette.

 _What if she doesn’t want to see me?_ he thought, and felt despair coil in his belly. He pushed it away firmly, and trained his eyes on the road. The way to St. Anne’s sanatorium was not a busy one, though, and he felt his mind begin to wander again.

Patrick was not a religious man, but whenever he thought of that evening with Sister Bernadette, he could not help but feel as if it had been something greater than could be described with words reserved for every day experiences that had brought them together. Whether that something was God, or Providence, or something else entirely was not something he could answer, thus he felt it was best left alone. 

He hadn’t known what he’d expected when she’d suddenly stood before him at the surgery that night, dressed in her oversized coat and a nightgown that looked like it had gone out of style two decades ago. She wasn’t wearing her cap, and her hair seemed almost ginger in the soft glow of the overhead lamp.

For a moment, he’d thought that it was a dream, or a hallucination.

Then, she’d touched him, had embraced him almost a bit too tight to be comfortable. He could smell her shampoo and the starch the nuns used to keep their wimples unwrinkled, and had known it really was her.

Whatever had happened next, though, had felt decidedly unreal.

 _Or maybe it was one of the realest things I’ve ever experienced,_ Patrick thought, tearing his eyes away from skittish autumn leaves that chased each other. He trained his gaze on the road instead.

Maybe it was because the surgery so late at night had become a liminal space.

Maybe it wasn’t the surgery at all, but Sister Bernadette herself who had shifted into something different with the knowledge that she was no longer as firmly planted in the realm of the living as she’d previously thought.

Or maybe they’d just been two desperate adults trying to find comfort in the arms of another. He’d been so afraid that he’d cried afterwards, as if he were a little boy. He had turned away as he got dressed, ashamed of his sudden outburst of emotion. She’d appeared beside him, silent as a ghost, and had embraced him again.

“I can bring you back by car,” he’d murmured, kissing her hair.

“No. You have to go home, to Timothy, and then you need to rest. There are patients to see tomorrow, things to do…” She’d stepped away from him, had given him a small, sad smile, and had disappeared as quietly as she’d come.

He’d brought her to the London for further tests the day afterwards, had taken her to the sanatorium, but they hadn’t spoken about that night, as if by mutual agreement. He’d wanted to ask her if she meant to renounce her vows, if she meant to come back to him as an ordinary woman rather than a nun, but he daren’t. Her first priority was getting better. It was all she should focus on.

Patrick wrote to her every week to make sure she’d know he thought about her. His letters were friendly, civil. He didn’t want to presume too much, even though it was almost impossible not to presume after their lovemaking.

No answers came.

His letters were laced with ever more silent desperation. His resolve to go and see her grew. There were things he couldn’t say in a letter.

After all, he didn’t even know her name.

***

He parked the car in front of the sanatorium. It was a large building, the stones the colour of sand. The trees that surrounded it had started to shed their leaves, the ones they still clutched in their twiggy grip dipped in gold and orange and brown.

Patrick wiped his hands on his trousers and inhaled deeply. “You’ll be fine,” he told himself, then stepped out of the car.

Inside the building, there lay an almost eerie hush. He stood still for a moment, toying with the idea of turning back and leaving, abandoning this plan. She didn’t know he was coming; what if she didn’t want him here? Her recovery was of the utmost importance; what if his presence here would unbalance her? But he needed to see how she was doing, and though he didn’t much like to think of rights, he did feel he was somewhat justified in checking up on her, both in his capacity as her GP and her lover.

 _Regardless of what she decides,_ he thought, then exhaled and started moving.

“Can I help you?” a pretty nurse with round cheeks asked him.

“I’m looking for Sister Bernadette. I’m her GP. Doctor Turner,” he said, extending his hand.

She shook it, her grip firm, her hand dry and warm. “Nurse Peters. I didn’t know she was expecting you,” she said, a sly smile playing on her face.

Patrick suddenly wondered if Sister Bernadette had mentioned him to the staff here, and what she’d told them.

“I was in the neighbourhood,” he lied. “It’s been a while since I’ve been to St. Anne’s. I thought I might check up on the place, see how it’s faring.”

“Ever better since we’ve got the Triple Treatment,” Nurse Peters said, directing him into a room with large windows that looked out over the spacious grounds. There were chairs and tables and sofas, some of them occupied, most of them empty.  

“Antibiotics are a wonder drug,” Patrick agreed, shifting his doctor’s bag from one hand to the other, resisting the urge to dig around in his coat’s pocket for his cigarette case.

“A miracle of the modern age. I’ll tell her you’re here,” Nurse Peters said, deftly moving between the furniture, leaving Patrick near the door.

He adjusted his scarf, trying not to strain his neck as his eyes followed the nurse, looking for Sister Bernadette.

 _There_ she was. She wore her cap, but not her wimple, and sat curled up at the end of a sofa, near the window. He saw her from behind, and couldn’t be sure what she’d been doing before Nurse Peters gently tapped her on the shoulder. If he had to hazard a guess, he’d say she’d been reading.

She looked up, listened to the nurse. She turned around, a ready smile on her face. When she saw him, her eyes widened in surprise. She listened to another thing Nurse Peters said, then gave her a small nod, almost curt in its littleness.

Nurse Peters returned, smiling openly. “She’ll see you,” she said.

Was he mistaken, or did the nurse give him a wink? He didn’t know, didn’t care; he threaded his way between the stools and chairs and coffee tables, legs feeling both weak as elastic and coiled tight as springs.

“Good morning, Sister,” he said, voice a little hoarse.

She flicked her eyes up. They were almost liquid, and shone like stars. _A side-effect of the TB,_ Patrick knew, but it did make her look luminous. “Hello, Doctor Turner,” she said, her Scottish accent making it sound almost as if she were purring.

“Were you expecting someone else?” he asked.

“Sister Julienne will visit later today.”

“I’m glad. You need visitors.” He smiled at her.

She returned it, then pointed to a chair that stood very near her. “Won’t you sit down?”

“Of course.” He placed is bag against the chair, then flopped into it, wincing as his knees popped. “How are you?” he asked.

“The Triple Treatment and I seem to agree with each other,” she said, putting the book she’d cradled in her lap on a wobbly coffee table.

“I’m glad,” Patrick said. He tapped his fingertips together, uncertain of what to say. There was so much that needed to be said, so much he hadn’t put in his letters, but there were other people here, and she was still a nun…

“How’s Timothy?” she asked.

“You’ll find him much the same when you return. He’s grown a bit, but for the rest, he’s still Timothy.”

Before he could say any more, Nurse Peters placed a tray with china cups and a steaming teapot on the table. “Here you go,” she said, and this time, she definitely gave him a wink.

Patrick felt his cheeks grow scarlet. He cleared his throat and trained his eyes on the plate with biscuits, taking one between his fingers and almost dropping it.

“Thank you,” Sister Bernadette said, and poured the tea.

They were both silent for a little while, unsure of how to proceed.

Patrick ate his biscuit, then fumbled in his pocket for a little match box and placed it on the arm of the sofa. “Here.”

She frowned, then took it in her hand, pushing it open. “A dead butterfly,” she said, lines between her eyebrows smoothing themselves.

“Timothy found it in the windowsill. He asked me if I could tell him the cause of death, but I’m afraid insects have never been my field of expertise. He wanted to send it to you, to see if maybe you did know, or else if one of the doctors here might.”

“He has an inquiring mind,” Sister Bernadette noted, again giving him that small, soft smile.

“He asks after you every day. He wants to know when you’ll come back.” His heart beat a loud tattoo in his chest, causing his blood to roar in his ears. “ _I_ want to know when you come back, and how,” he whispered.

She bit her lip, and looked away.

“I’m sorry. That was very forward of me,” Patrick said, inwardly cursing himself.

She surprised him by taking his hand in hers and squeezing it. Her fingers were cold, her hand small and softer than he remembered.

“I’ve been thinking about it a great deal,” she whispered. There was a breathiness to her voice that he didn’t remember, either. “But I had to be absolutely sure that this is the right path.”

He wanted to tell her she didn’t seem to have such reservations before, at the surgery, when she was in his arms, but that would have been a very spiteful thing to say, and the last thing he desired was to hurt her. “If you want it, then surely…” he started.

“It’s not about what I want; it’s about what God wants.”

He looked at her hand, at the ring that adorned her finger and signified she’d already made vows that she’d intended to keep for a lifetime. He stroked her knuckles. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have come unannounced. It was a very selfish thing to do, but I was worried. I wrote you…”

“I know.”

“I was very afraid that your health was in decline.”

“I didn’t refrain from writing you because I was ill; I didn’t write to you because I needed time to think, and to pray.”

They were silent for a little while.

“Should I go?” he asked.

Her head snapped up. “Doctor Turner, I’m sorry. I’m not the kind of woman to toy with a man’s heart, and…” she couldn’t speak, only squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head.

“I’d never think that of you,” Patrick said, enveloping her hand with his, rubbing a bit of life back into her icy digits.

“I know you so little…” her voice trailed off.

“I shouldn’t have come,” he murmured.

She opened her eyes and took hold of his hand with such force that it almost hurt. “No!” she said, louder than she’d probably intended. “Don’t you see? If I leave the Order, it has to be because of more than you and Timothy. I can’t renounce my vows because I want to be your wife and his mother. It doesn’t matter how much I might want it, how everything else I’ve ever wished for pales in comparison. If I leave the Order, it has to be because He wants me to. I’ve made a promise, and I’ve put my life in His hands. It is not my own to give.” She was very pale, but two spots of colour burned in her cheeks. Her chest was rising rapidly, and she was slightly out of breath.

“If I couldn’t accept that, I wouldn’t deserve you,” he said.

“I couldn’t have fallen in love with you if you didn’t say things like that, if you didn’t mean them,” she said.

“I have to go home. Timothy is at his grandmother’s; she’ll expect me to have dinner with them, and I still have some files to go through.” And he wanted to leave her in peace, so she could make up her mind without him to agitate her.

“Give Timothy my love. I’ll ask one of the doctors here to look at his butterfly, see if we can find a cause of death,” Sister Bernadette said.

“He’ll appreciate that.” Patrick stood and took his bag, then quickly ducked down to press a kiss against the back of her hand.

It was only when he straightened up that he saw Sister Julienne stare at them.

 _Oh God,_ he thought, _what will we do now?_

 


	3. Chapter 3

“Can someone tell me what’s going on?” Sister Julienne asked as soon as she’d found her voice again. Her heart was pounding, and a strange taste coated her tongue.

 _Please, God,_ she prayed, _please let this be a misunderstanding. Please tell me that I didn’t see what I think I saw._ The guilty looks on the faces of her sister and the doctor, though, told her she was not mistaken. Sister Bernadette had gone deathly white; even her lips had lost all colour. Doctor Turner, on the other hand, had flushed almost crimson.  

“Sister,” he said, voice hoarse, and nodded. “I’ve come to visit Sister Bernadette.”

“That’s not what I’m referring to,” Sister Julienne said. Her hands and feet had gone numb. She could only feel her heart, and that felt as if it was breaking.

“It’s just that…” Doctor Turner started.

Sister Bernadette shook her head, and looked up boldly at her fellow religious sister. “Please let me explain,” she said, voice soft. She turned to the doctor. “You must get home.”

But Sister Julienne wanted to get to the bottom of this, _now,_ and would not allow Doctor Turner to steal away. She pinned him with a cold stare. “I’d greatly appreciate it if you could take me home, Doctor. It saves Nonnatus a bus fare. I’m sure you can wait a little while longer?” she asked, but it really wasn’t a question.

“Of course, Sister,” he said.

“I’ll see you at your car, then,” she said, dismissing him.

He looked as if he was about to argue, but Sister Bernadette shook her head at him. He gave her a small smile before walking away from them.

Sister Bernadette looked at his receding form as Sister Julienne sat down next to her. Icy silence fell. Sister Julienne folded her hands in her lap and waited, trying to still the wild thoughts that bounced around in her head.

“Please don’t look at me like that,” Sister Bernadette whispered.

“Like what?”

“Like we’ve done something unforgivable.” She wrung her hands.

_‘We’. Oh, God._

“Like it was sordid,” Sister Bernadette continued.

 _Wasn’t it?_ “You are a nun. You cannot let a man kiss your hand. You must not allow it. You’ve made vows, and…”

“Do you think I don’t know that?” Sister Bernadette cried out, cheeks flushed. People turned to look at them. She lowered her voice and eyes. “I’m sorry, Sister.  I shouldn’t shout. Come. We can speak in the garden.”

Sister Julienne waited for Sister Bernadette to fetch her coat and did so outside, shivering as the autumn wind tugged at her wimple. Her mind was still reeling from what she’d seen. Was Sister Bernadette not the person she’d thought she was?

 _No,_ she thought, _I cannot make hasty judgements. She is still my sister, still the compassionate and intelligent and sensitive person I know her to be. This might have been a temporary lapse._ What if it hadn’t been, though? She remembered how her sister had been in despair for months, how she’d spent hours in the chapel praying for something she could not name out loud, or something she did not wish to name out loud, not in front of Sister Julienne.

 _But I must reserve judgement at all costs,_ Sister Julienne knew. If she was hasty in forming her opinion, she risked alienating Sister Bernadette from her forever, and that was the last thing she desired. Besides, even though she felt she had a better right to have an opinion about the conduct of her religious sister than most, it didn’t become a nun to condemn. It was up to the Lord to judge, not up to her.

She folded her hands around the wooden cross on the end of her necklace and closed her eyes. _God, give me strength,_ she prayed. _I’m afraid I need it now more than ever before._

Sister Bernadette appeared next to her. “I’m ready,” she murmured.

Sister Julienne opened her eyes and firmly took Sister Bernadette’s arm in hers, giving it a faint squeeze. No matter what had happened, her sister needed her strength and compassion; there was no room for Sister Julienne’s hurt.

“How long has this been going on?” she asked as they stepped on a gravely path that wound between clipped shrubberies.

“These feelings… they snuck up on me. I didn’t know what they were, and when I could identify them, I was already drowning in them.” Sister Bernadette wiped a tear away.

“I tried to pray them away. I was on my knees for hours and hours, Sister, begging God to make me feel something else, anything else, but this longing I could never satiate. But with every prayer, it seemed as if my love only grew stronger...” She fell quiet for a moment.

 _‘Love’,_ Sister Julienne thought. Her stomach gave a funny lurch. She wanted to speak, but she knew it was best to remain quiet, to allow her fellow religious sister to spill everything she’d held inside for so long.

“I tried to ignore those emotions, and buried myself in my work. I thought that it might all go away as long as I kept myself occupied. I tried to ignore Doctor Turner, but how could I ignore him when we had to work together, when we had to secure that van for Poplar?” Her eyes flicked up. There was pleading in the clear blue, and need.

Sister Julienne felt her stomach make a strange little jump again. Had she unwittingly facilitated whatever there was between the doctor and her sweet sister? She pushed the feeling away, and focussed on Sister Bernadette again. “And then?” she prompted.

“Then I got diagnosed with TB, and everything unimportant fell away, but he remained.” She took Sister Julienne’s hand in hers and squeezed it very hard. Her fingers were cold as ice. “He was almost the only thing I could think about, Sister. I thought that, surely, this meant that my feelings for him were real, were true.”

She tilted her head back so she could look at a tree that stood beside the path. It let go of a handful of leaves. They drifted down lazily, one brushing past Sister Julienne’s shoulder, landing in the crook of her elbow. Sister Bernadette took it between her fingers and stroked the veins before letting it go. The wind caught it, and twirled it around before depositing it on the ground.

“I thought my time here, at the sanatorium, might do me good,” Sister Bernadette continued. “There’s no work here to occupy my hands and mind, just prayer, reflection. I wondered what might happen to my feelings for Doctor Turner if I scrutinized them. I wondered if they’d fall apart like cobwebs, like shadows when a ray of light falls on them.” She inhaled very deeply, and smiled a little. “But I realised that my feelings for him _are_ the light, not the darkness.”

Sister Julienne felt her heart pitter-patter in her chest. Her fingers tingled. She put them in the spacious pockets of her coat. “Is that why you called him here?” she asked, trying to keep her voice level. She could not get the image of the doctor bent over Sister Bernadette’s hand out of her head, could not stop seeing how he kissed her hand, taking liberties he had no right to take. She’d wanted to ask whether anything untoward had happened between them before, but suddenly she was very much afraid of the answer.

Sister Bernadette shook her head vehemently. “No, Sister! I didn’t call him here. You see, he wrote me letters, so many letters… I didn’t reply, gave him no encouragement. Maybe that was very cruel of me, but I didn’t do it to toy with him; I just wanted to see if his feelings for me were as true as my feelings for him. I didn’t doubt it, but I needed prove of his… steadfastness, if you will.” She nodded. “Yes, I needed to see that he loves me, because that way, I would at least know one thing for sure. And he does, Sister, he does, otherwise he wouldn’t have come to see how I was faring. But now I am so confused! Maybe his visit is the sign I have been hoping for. I thought God didn’t answer my prayers, but maybe my feelings growing after every prayer _were_ his answer. I don’t know!” she cried. She buried her face in her hands and sobbed.

“It seems to me you might be closer to an answer than you suspect,” Sister Julienne slowly said. She put an arm around Sister Bernadette and drew her close. Sister Bernadette hugged her, knotting her hands behind Sister Julienne’s back. Her small frame shook.

“Am I? I just don’t know! I love him so much, but I’m a nun, I _am_ …”

“Oh, my dear,” Sister Julienne murmured, rubbing circles between the younger woman’s shoulder blades, “You don’t have to be a nun to serve the Lord.” She could feel something inside of her break and tear as she pushed these words out of her mouth, and felt like crying herself.

Sister Bernadette sniffed. “He’s a good man, Sister, you know he is,” she whispered.

“I do. And if you were so unsure, you would not have been glad to see him. You’d not have allowed him to kiss your hand,” Sister Julienne went on, breath hitching on the last word.

Sister Bernadette stepped out of her embrace and wiped her eyes with her fingertips. “Maybe that’s true. I am so certain…” But whether she was certain about her vocation or her love for the doctor, she didn’t say.

Sister Julienne took her hand and squeezed it, stroking the knuckles with her thumb. “Let me take you inside,” she said, smiling a little. Her vision was fuzzy with tears, but she swallowed them down. After all, she still had a conversation with Doctor Turner to get through.


	4. Chapter 4

**The adventure continues! Thanks to purple-roses-words-and-love for betaing.**

Patrick felt like a man meeting the people he hoped would be his future in-laws, going to them to beg them for the hand of their daughter.

 _More like a man going to the mother of his girlfriend and having to tell her he has had improper relations with her daughter out of wedlock,_ he thought, lighting yet another cigarette. The butts of this cigarette’s predecessors littered the ground around his feet like petals.

He smoked till his hands stopped shaking, then let the remainder of his cigarette fall to the road. He ground it out with his foot the moment Sister Julienne left the building and came towards him.

 _Oh God,_ he thought.

“Sister,” he said, and opened the door of his car for her. She gave him a cold look before getting in. Patrick curled and uncurled his hand as he walked around the car, trying to shake the pins-and-needles feeling that threatened to nestle in his digits.

He got in, praying that the wind had blown away the scent of smoke, hoping that he didn’t smell like a chimney.

He opened his mouth to say something, but swallowed his words down and started the car instead. He trained his eyes on the road, waiting for Sister Julienne to speak.

After a few minutes, when the tension had made the air almost too thick to breathe, his resolution broke. “I imagine you must be shocked,” Patrick said.

“If it had been any other man…” Sister Julienne started. She sighed, and didn’t finish her sentence.

 _You would’ve murdered him?_ Patrick wondered, but didn’t dare ask. He looked at her from the corner of his eyes. She looked pale, drawn.

“I’ve always thought you were a good man, Doctor Turner, but pray tell me: what are your intentions with Sister Bernadette?”

 _It really is as if I’m talking with my mother-in-law,_ he thought, even though Granny Parker had been a lot more welcoming.

He swallowed. “I love her. I want to marry her, if she’s willing.”

Sister Julienne turned her face to him. “And if she isn’t?”

Had she said something about this to her senior sister? Had she told her that she had come to doubt him, that she didn’t love him enough?

“Then I’d let her go. I’d leave her alone,” he whispered, even though he felt his heart break a little at the thought alone.

“Like you left her alone at the sanatorium?”

He felt something akin to anger coil in his belly. “Sister, I came to see Sister Bernadette because I was worried about her. I didn’t come to press her, to force her to make a decision. I gave her months already; I’d give her years, if that’s what it took for her to be certain.”

“How long has this been going on?” Sister Julienne exclaimed.

He didn’t feel he had to answer that.

“Doctor Turner, if you’ve taken advantage…”

“Sister Bernadette is not a child. She’s a grown woman,” he snapped.

“She’s a _nun,_ thus a woman in name only!” Sister Julienne retorted.

He thought of Sister Bernadette’s lithe form in his arms, of the litany of sighs and moans she hadn’t been able to contain as they made love.

“I know that!” He forced himself to be calm. He inhaled deeply, once, twice, three times. A raindrop landed on the windshield and burst apart in a smattering of smaller drops. The wind threw another handful against the glass, like pebbles. He turned on the wipers, and let their rhythmic motions soothe him.

“Sister, I know this is not what you imagined for Sister Bernadette, but please believe me that I want and have only ever wanted her happiness, whether that’s with me or not.”

“That, at least, we have in common,” Sister Julienne murmured. She rubbed her eyes, then looked out of the window, at the trees that whipped past them, at their bare twigs and the branches that still held handfuls of leaves.

“I won’t go to see Sister Bernadette again unless she asks me. Would that ease your conscience?” Patrick asked, voice not unkind.

Sister Julienne bit her lip, then nodded. “I know you are an honourable man, Doctor Turner. Please don’t doubt that. It’s just… Sister Bernadette means a lot to me. I don’t want her to stray from the path God has chosen for her.”

“But what if God has set a course for her which branches away from yours?” Patrick asked.

Sister Julienne was quiet for a long while. Patrick had almost forgotten what he’d said, when she answered: “We’ve prayed for you and Timothy since Marianne died. We prayed that you’d find joy again. Maybe this is His way to answer those prayers. Maybe this is His road for her.”

His throat grew so thick he could scarcely talk. “Thank you for saying that, Sister,” he whispered.

She gave him a watery smile. “All I ask is that you allow Sister Bernadette to take the first step, no matter what that step might be.”

Patrick nodded. “Always.” He wondered if she already had, though, the night she’d come to his office to find comfort and solace with him.

***

Sister Bernadette came to him again two weeks later.

Patrick was in his office, trying to get through the huge pile of paperwork that had accumulated on his desk, when there was a soft knock on the door.

“Enter,” he called out without looking up from the file he was reading.

“Doctor Turner?” The voice was soft and lilting.

Patrick snapped his head up. For a heartbeat, he didn’t recognize the woman in front of him. She looked so different without her wimple, without the habit. She’d put her hair up in a kind of twist, and wore a skirt suit that looked like it had gone out of style a decade ago.

“Sister Bernadette,” he breathed.

She smiled a little, then closed the door behind her. “I don’t answer to that name anymore,” she said.

He stood and closed the space between them in a heartbeat. He reached for her hand, but hesitated.

She smiled again, and took his hand in hers. She no longer wore her ring. He stroked the little bit of skin on her finger that was paler than the rest, and silky soft, like a petal. The feeling grounded him; this was not a ghostly apparition, but a woman of flesh and blood.

“Your ring is gone,” he said, voice thick.

“I was discharged this morning. I took the bus back to Poplar and went to see Sister Julienne. I’ve renounced my vows.” Her voice was still very breathy.

He looked into her eyes. They were liquid and deep and lovely, like the sea. He wondered if he could drown in them. He was willing to try.

“You should’ve called me. I would’ve come to pick you up,” Patrick said.

“I did, but you weren’t here, and I couldn’t wait…”

She snaked her arms around him and placed her head on his chest, over the space where his heart beat. Her eyelids fluttered like butterfly wings. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, “I’m sorry I didn’t wait for you. I’m sorry I didn’t answer your letters.”

He touched her hair. It was soft and smelled like soap, like her. He pressed his nose against her crown, dropping a kiss against it. “It’s all right, love,” he said. “It’s all right to doubt.”

She looked up and shook her head. “I didn’t doubt you. I never doubted you. I was just… confused by the intensity of my own feelings. I knew what I wanted, and eventually I knew what God wanted, but I was afraid to admit it.” She stroked his chest with splayed hands before cupping his face. “I’m still afraid, but I’m also braver than I was.”

“I was afraid I said too much, did too much,” Patrick said.

“You didn’t. You said what was necessary. You did what was necessary, and I… I love you.”

“Oh, darling,” he sighed, mouth curling into a smile, “how I love you.”

“I couldn’t be more certain.”

“I’m completely certain. I don’t even know your name…”

“Shelagh.”

“Patrick.”

She smiled. “There.”

He realised he’d never kissed her mouth before. They couldn’t do that when she’d come to his office that night, not with the TB rattling in her lungs and coating her tongue. She was no longer ill, though… He could kiss her now like he’d wanted to when they’d made love. The thought sent a thrill along his spine. His fingertips tingled.

“How are you feeling?” he asked, feeling her forehead with his palm, almost out of habit.

Shelagh smiled, eyelids slipping shut. “Exquisite,” she murmured.

“But you’re not ill?”

Her smile deepened. “Just a bit nauseous from the Triple Treatment, and a bit tired, Doctor,” she teased.

“Ah. I know something that might make that better,” he whispered.

She opened her eyes. “Do you?”

He nodded, then kissed her. She sighed against his mouth before opening up to him. She tasted sweet. He noted that she’d closed her eyes again, and made a soft hum of approval in the back of his throat. They stopped when they were both out of breath. Shelagh’s cheeks were flushed, and her eyes sparkled like water caressed by sunlight.

“Better?” Patrick asked, unable to keep a grin from his face.

“Yes, but I think I might need… another dose of medicine,” she said, and stood on tiptoes, sealing whatever it was she’d promised him without words that night in his office with another kiss.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Halfway there, guys! Thanks to @purple-roses-words-and-love for betaing.

 

She found the wimple stuck to the bottom of her suitcase a week after she’d come home from the sanatorium.

“I must’ve overlooked it, even though I hardly see how that’s possible,” Shelagh said, wringing her hands. She kept her eyes trained on the virginal white. The wimple had become limp and would have to be washed and starched before it could be used again.

“You’ve had more important matters on your mind,” Sister Julienne said. She took Shelagh’s hand in hers, her nail catching on the little stone of her engagement ring.

Shelagh smiled. “Yes,” she said, wishing she wouldn’t sound so giddy, so girl-like, not in front of her former religious sister. 

She tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, suddenly self-conscious of how uncovered her head was, how much her clothes accentuated her figure. She shouldn’t have been surprised that her clothes of ten years ago were snug around the waist and chest, but it had still caught her unawares somehow. She’d bought some new clothes, but most of those were still being altered, and the one blouse she could’ve worn today had become soiled when she’d helped Timothy paint his science project.

Her stomach gave a soft twinge. She pressed her hand against it, willing it to still. She’d been nauseous ever since she’d started the triple treatment. She wanted the after-effects to go away, so she could finally leave that time in the wilderness behind her.

Sister Julienne let go of her hand and leaned back in her chair. “Sister Evangelina will bring in the tea things presently, I’ve no doubt.”

“Oh, there’s no need. I just wanted to bring this back to where it belongs,” Shelagh said, patting the wimple.

“Shelagh, please. You could’ve let Doctor Turner bring this wimple. It would’ve saved you the trouble of coming all the way to Nonnatus, but here we are. Am I wrong to think you’re not just here for a piece of cloth?” Sister Julienne asked, smiling her usual, friendly smile, the one that opened her face and invited the other to spill their secrets and worries.

Shelagh took a shivering breath and looked at her ring. Patrick had asked her three days ago, three glorious days she’d spent with him and his son as much as she could.

She’d had to do some shopping, of course, and Patrick had patients to see, so she’d been alone at times. When she’d gone to the post office to buy some stamps, she’d heard the women behind her whispering. She’d tried to ignore them, but it seemed as if their words had grown louder and louder until it was impossible not to overhear their hushed conversation.

“Who’d ever have thought it of her? She looked a proper nun…” the first woman said.

“There’s no saying what goes on underneath those habits, now is there?” another woman responded.

“Or behind closed doors, for that matter. Makes you wonder, doesn’t it? Maybe they’ve been at it ever since the Doctor’s wife died. Maybe he had to marry her,” a third woman chimed in.

Shelagh had slammed some coins on the counter, not bothering to wait for her change. She’d taken the stamps in hand and marched away, trying to keep her breathing steady. The women stepped out of her path, their faces startled as they realised in whose vicinity they’d been gossiping.

Shelagh was sure Patrick heard his fair share of wagging tongues, too. Just yesterday he’d been in a foul mood when he came home. She’d thought something must have gone wrong with a patient at first, but it wasn’t that. He’d pulled her in his embrace and held her very tightly after he’d walked her to her lodgings, had kissed her brow and her cheek.

“What’s wrong?” she’d asked him.

“I just want to hold you,” he’d whispered, and hugged her tighter, as if afraid she’d bolt and leave him. “I’m sorry,” he’d said before kissing her goodnight, but whether he apologised for his bad temper earlier, his bone-crushing embrace, or for something unnamed, she didn’t know.

“There’s been… talk, Sister,” Shelagh said.

“A little gossip was to be expected, surely?” Sister Julienne said, folding her hands.

Shelagh gave her a wary smile. “I expected a little, yes. I just hadn’t thought it would be quite so… vicious.” She told the older woman of the things she’d overheard in the post office. “I’m sure other people say such things, too, maybe things that are worse,” she concluded, eyes moist. She fished her handkerchief out of her purse. She had to tug at it; a corner had somehow lodged itself between the pages of her diary.

“But you and Doctor Turner know the truth, and you’ll always have the support of Nonnatus,” Sister Julienne said.

Another spasm of guilt shuddered through Shelagh. She did not think her actions with Patrick at the surgery that night were sinful or sordid, but to hear others speak of it as if they were made it hard to cling to her own convictions. It made her stomach tie itself up in knots till she could hardly eat for fear of vomiting. Would Sister Julienne still support her if she knew what had transpired between her former religious sister and the doctor that evening?

“Thank you, Sister. That means a lot to me,” Shelagh said.

“Now, have you and Doctor Turner agreed on a date for the wedding?” Sister Julienne asked.

Shelagh was saved from answering that by Sister Evangelina. She came in, carrying a large tablet with a teapot, cups and saucers, and plates with cake.

“It took a while to find the cake tin. I couldn’t remember where I’d hidden it. I could’ve saved myself the trouble: Sister Monica Joan has eaten most of it, anyway.” She looked at Shelagh. “Morning, Miss Mannion,” she said, voice curt.

 _She can’t stay upset with me forever,_ Shelagh thought, stomach twinging.

“Good morning, Sister Evangelina,” Shelagh answered, doing her best to smile.

“I assume you still drink your tea the way you used to?” Sister Evangelina asked. Without waiting for a reply, she poured tea in one of the cups and added milk, then shoved the cup into Shelagh’s hands.

“Thank you,” Shelagh murmured. She brought the cup to her mouth to take a sip.

The scent of the milk was sickening. It was thick, and overwhelmingly sour. Her stomach, already sensitive because of the months of penicillin and stress, rebelled. She gagged and almost dropped her cup on the table, pale tea sloshing over the rim.

“Watch it!” Sister Evangelina cried out. Sister Julienne hastily shoved a stack of papers out of the way of the droplets of tea.

Shelagh inhaled deeply, but her stomach refused to quiet down. She pressed a hand against her mouth, stood so quickly she almost knocked her chair over, and ran for the lavatory. She made it just in time and vomited once, twice, three times. Her face was shiny with a thin layer of perspiration by the time she was done, her lashes wet with tears. She came to her feet and flushed, holding on to the sink as her legs trembled.

“You all right?” Sister Evangelina asked. She stood on the threshold – _I must lock the door next time_ –, arms folded in front of her chest.

Shelagh gave her a weak smile. “It’s the Triple Treatment. My stomach still hasn’t fully recovered, I’m afraid.” She ran the tap and rinsed her mouth, then washed her hands.

“Hm,” Sister Evangelina said, handing her a damp flannel to wash her face with.

“I think the milk was off, as well,” Shelagh added.

“Nonsense. I drank from the same bottle myself this morning. Nothing wrong with that milk,” Sister Evangelina huffed. She turned around to go, then hesitated. “I’ll tell Sister Julienne that you’re unwell and that you’ve gone home, all right? I’ll fetch your purse and coat. You shouldn’t do too much too soon when you’ve just come out of the sanatorium.”

“You’re using the same voice you use for your patients,” Shelagh murmured.

“You are a patient, aren’t you? You’ve been ill with TB.” Sister Evangelina snorted. “Though if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were pregnant.” She closed the door behind her.

Shelagh stood rooted to the spot. _Pregnant,_ she thought. Then: _surely not!_ Was it possible? But no, she’d been unwell, had been weak with consumption. _You know that TB doesn’t prevent pregnancies, though,_ a stern voice told her.

She looked at her face in the mirror. She was pale, but she hadn’t lost much weight, not even in the sanatorium. _Your clothes did fit rather snugly…_ She pressed a hand against her abdomen. Was there something there?

Sister Evangelina returned with her coat and purse. Shelagh thanked her with a tight smile. Her fingers trembled as she did up the buttons of her coat, until Sister Evangelina batted her hands away with an exasperated smile and did it herself.

Shelagh clutched her purse to her chest with white-knuckled hands. She went to her lodgings as if in a dream, her toes and fingers numb, her head pounding. She didn’t bother to put away her coat and shoes as she came in. Instead, she went to her bed, and flopped down on it. She pulled her diary from her purse, stroking the soft leather with the back of her hand before opening it.

She’d marked her cycle with a red dot. The first months of the year had a new dot every twenty eight days. Then, after her TB diagnosis, after that night with Patrick’s hand in her hair, her legs around his waist, they stopped.

“It’s the TB,” she whispered, “Surely it’s only the TB and the penicillin. The doctors said the Triple Treatment could cause my cycle to stop…”

She’d attributed the lack of her cycle, the constant nausea, the constant need to cry, the fatigue, all of it, to her illness and its treatment.

But what if she was wrong?


	6. Chapter 6

Shelagh had hardly slept that night. She’d looked at the water stain on the ceiling, and fretted, and cried.

If she was pregnant – and she was almost fully convinced that she was – she’d be almost four months along now. No matter how fast she and Patrick married, it was not possible to pretend that this pregnancy had occurred after matrimony. Hurried marriages and babies born not quite nine months later were not rare in Poplar. In fact, blushing brides with swollen bellies were nothing out of the ordinary. People might tut at it, but as long as marriage occurred somewhere along the line, the mother-to-be had saved her reputation and secured a decent future for her unborn child.

A finger on her ring would not wash away this taint on Shelagh’s reputation, though. Fooling around as an unwedded woman could be forgiven; sexual relations as a nun were quite a different matter.

Shelagh had palpated her abdomen, feeling the gentle curve of an expanding belly. How could she not have felt it before? Had she been so dreadfully out of tune with her body that she, a trained and accomplished midwife, had not recognised the symptoms?

“You’re not entirely sure. It could be something else…” she’d whispered, then cried some more.

In the morning, she’d pressed a cold cloth against her swollen eyes, made herself a cup of tea, and told herself to stop being so melodramatic. If she wanted to know whether she was pregnant, she should make use of a pregnancy test.

Shelagh had prepared a urine sample, and placed it in her bag so she could smuggle it into the surgery. She’d needed Patrick’s signature, but that had been easy enough to forge. At Nonnatus, Shelagh had drawn pictures of babies in the womb on a blackboard countless of times; Patrick’s signature was not half as hard as the subtle curve of a baby’s spine. She’d practiced it a few times with her heart pounding in her throat till she could do it almost perfectly.

 _You should trust him,_ a small voice had told her. _If you cannot ask Patrick to help you with this…_

She had wiped her hands on her skirt as if they were stained with chalk, and had shaken her head. _Patrick has so much on his mind already; I’d hate to add more to that, especially if it turns out that I’m not pregnant at all._

After slipping in her sample with the others, there was nothing left but to wait till the results were in.

That had been a week ago. Now, Shelagh was at the surgery, intent on taking a peek at the results, should they be in.

“You’ve forgotten your lunch,” she told Patrick, placing a paper bag with sandwiches on his desk.

He looked up at her, and smiled. “Sometimes I wonder what I’ve done to deserve you,” he said, and took her hand in his. She gave it a soft squeeze. He pressed it over his heart. There was a twinge in her abdomen. Almost four months ago, on this desk…

“Shall I fetch the post for you? I think it must have come in just now.” She adjusted his tie, then gave him a quick peck on the cheek. “I’ll make us some tea. Unless you don’t have time for lunch with me?”

Patrick cupped her chin. “I always have time for you, Shelagh.” He pressed his mouth against hers.

She smiled against his lips, then broke their kiss. “Tea it is, then.”

She put the kettle on and took the bundle of envelopes from the table of the secretary. She flicked through them, heart beating fitfully again. The results usually came within a week. It had been eight days. Surely it should be here by now, surely she would know today… _There_ it was, in a large, manila envelope, like always.

She glanced up. It was Patrick’s lunch break, so there were no patients. His secretary had gone out, too, leaving the surgery perfectly empty.

Shelagh took the envelope with her back to the kitchen. She poured tea into two cups with matching saucers, and spooned some sugar into them. She added a bit of cold water to her own cup and took a large gulp, allowing the sweet brew to fortify her.

“Hurry, you daft girl, or you’ll miss your chance,” she whispered. She picked the envelope up with trembling hands, took a knife from the drawer, and opened it. The sheet with the results was thin, and not entirely white.

She scanned the line of names quickly, brushing past them with her fingertip. What if her name wasn’t on here yet? Could she bear going in here tomorrow with another excuse, trying to secure another beige envelope?

At last, she found it.

_Miss Mannion, Shelagh._

She daren’t look on, yet she must. She put the sheet down and grasped the counter with both hands, inhaling deeply. _Oh, God, please give me strength,_ she prayed.

_Miss Mannion, Shelagh. Positive._

Her fingertips tingled. Shivers ran up her spine.

 _Well, there you go,_ she thought. _It’s hardly a surprise._ But that was not true. The difference between almost knowing and knowing for sure was so big she could hardly grasp it with her mind.

How would she tell Patrick? She could hardly go into his office with two cups of tea and pretend all was fine. She picked up her cup to take another sip, but her hands shook so badly that she dropped it. The cup spilled its contents, then dropped to the floor before she could catch it. It shattered into curled shards. A brown flower bloomed on the paper, swallowing the names and the little words that would change the lives belonging to those names, or not change them at all.

She touched her belly. A different kind of flower bloomed there. She started to laugh, then dissolved into sobs.

How could she stay here in Poplar? How could she marry Patrick? She’d just tarnish his reputation as if it was a copper coin. Worst of all, though, was that she’d ruin Timothy’s life. The poor boy was hardly to blame for what his father and his colleague got up to…

But where would she go? Everyone she knew was here. Maybe Nonnatus? She shook her head.

 _How the nuns would hate you, if they knew,_ she thought. Sister Monica Joan had pressed a Bible in her hands the last time she’d seen her, and advised her to think hard on whether the slaking of the flesh or the succour of the soul was the most important. Sister Evangelina had huffed when she’d seen the engagement ring, and shaken her head. Sister Julienne…

“Shelagh?”

Patrick was beside her then, his hands on her shoulder, touching her, trying to find the cause of her distress.

“Shelagh, darling, what’s wrong?”

She turned to him and buried her face in his jumper. “Oh, Patrick,” she sobbed, inhaling his aftershave, his Henleys, his scent. How could she ever leave him?

“What is it? Have you hurt yourself?” He stroked her hair, her neck.

She stepped away from him and shook her head. “Here,” she said, and tapped the sodden paper. It had become almost translucent, but the words were still black and strong and visible.

He scanned the paper, eyes darting. “But… these are the results of the pregnancy tests.” He looked up at her, grabbed her hand. “But you couldn’t have… you’d need my signature…”

He was such a darling man. She had to laugh through her tears, and cupped his face. “I forged it,” she whispered.

“Why wouldn’t you tell me?”

She shook her head, unable to speak.

“This is no place for this conversation. Come,” Patrick said, and pulled her along to his office. She went willingly, like a child, like a sleepwalker. He locked the door behind them, then guided her to his chair. He knelt in front of her, her hands between his. There was bewilderment in his eyes, and worry, and love. “Shelagh, please explain this to me,” he whispered.

She pulled one hand free and placed her glasses on his desk. The glass had misted over from the heat of her tears.

“I never meant to hide it from you. I didn’t know it till last week. It was a comment Sister Evangelina made. Then, when I started to suspect, I didn’t want to bother you till I was absolutely certain…”

“Were there no symptoms?”

He’d asked her that question before. She smiled.

_Only a little breathlessness._

“I thought it was due to the triple treatment, or the TB.” She shook her head. “I was so naïve…”

Patrick bit his lip and set his jaw. “You weren’t, Shelagh. This doesn’t change anything between us.”

“How can you say that? Everything will be changed. Would you have asked me to marry you, had you known…”

He shook his head vehemently and pressed a finger against her mouth. “Don’t say such things, Shelagh! And certainly don’t think them. I didn’t ask you to marry me because I felt it was an obligation; I asked you because I love you.”

She pressed her forehead against his. Their breaths mingled. “There’ll be gossip, so much gossip… What are we going to do?” she whispered.

“We’ll get through, Shelagh. We’ve done so before, and we’ll do so again.” He pressed his mouth against hers and kissed her. It was a hard kiss, long and wild and passionate, like before, like four months ago. She curled her hand in his hair and knotted his tie around the other to steady herself. He pulled back, but she captured his mouth again, loving the taste of him on her tongue. He left her breathless.

“We’ll get through,” he whispered, his breath ghosting over her face, sending tremors through her body. Want coiled in her belly.

“I love you so much, Patrick. I was afraid before I told you, but now, I can hardly imagine why,” she whispered.

He smiled. “You’ll always have my love. Now dry your tears, darling. Take the results home with you and copy them, but leave out your name. That way, no one will find out for a little while yet.”

He handed her his handkerchief. It smelled like him. She dried her eyes, put her glasses on, and blew her nose. “We need to think of something. I can’t stay here, not now. I’ll start showing soon.”

“You don’t have to do this on your own, Shelagh. Leave me to worry about it, too.”

She gave him a weak smile. “I’ll copy the results and bring them back to you before the day is out.”

“Have you eaten something?”

She shook her head. Her stomach had refused almost any type of food this week. She’d breakfasted on tea and half a slice of bread, but that had been hours ago.

“Promise me you’ll eat something when you get home, all right?” Patrick asked.

“I’ve almost grown used to feeling faint. It all started with my budding feelings for you,” she quipped. When she saw the concern on his face, she tried to smooth some of his wrinkles away with her thumb. “I promise I’ll eat something.”

Patrick brought her to the door of his office, his hand on the small of her back.

 _How I want him,_ she thought. She glanced over her shoulder, at the desk. _Look where that wanting brought us._

“Don’t worry about that teacup,” Patrick said. “I’ll ask one of the nurses to clean it up. Just take the paper and…”

They’d reached the kitchen, but it was not empty.

Sister Julienne stood with the paper in her hand, her face as pale as the sheet had been before Shelagh had dropped her tea on it. Her eyes flicked up when she saw them.

“Sister Julienne. I didn’t know…” Patrick started.

“I came to see if the results of Mrs. Mann’s pregnancy test were in. I couldn’t find them, so I went to the kitchen to make myself some tea whilst I waited for you, Doctor.” She raised the sodden paper with a trembling hand.

 _I’m going to faint,_ Shelagh thought as her eyes met that of her former sister. She couldn’t feel her legs.

“Imagine my surprise when I found the list here. Why, pray tell me Shelagh, is your name on this list? And why does it say that you are pregnant?” Sister Julienne asked. Her voice shook even more than her hands did.

“I…” Shelagh’s vision became spotty. “I think I’m going to faint,” she murmured, and collapsed against Patrick.

 


	7. Chapter 7

**Thanks to @purple-roses-words-and-love for betaing.**

They were married a week after the pregnancy results came in.

It was a quiet ceremony, with only the witnesses and Timothy. Patrick had tried to persuade Shelagh to invite some of her friends from Nonnatus, but she’d refused, looking pale and drawn and close to crying. “They hate me, Patrick,” she’d whispered. “They hate me for breaking my vows. They think I’ve spat on their way of living, and how can I deny that with your child already growing inside of me?”

He’d taken her in his arms as she cried. “It’ll all blow over. I promise, my darling. If you’d go to Sister Julienne and explain to her…”

 _Not yet, maybe,_ Patrick had thought.

She’d shaken her head and stepped away, wiping her tears with her fingertips. “No. I can’t do that, Patrick. I can’t sit across from her at her desk and have her staring at me, can’t sit there as she judges me and finds me wanting.”

He’d remembered Sister Julienne’s eyes, so cold and distant, as she’d hold up the sheet of paper with the results of the pregnancy tests. Yet her frostiness had melted away when Shelagh had fainted.

“She hasn’t eaten anything today,” Patrick had said. He hadn’t known what else to say.

“She should know better,” Sister Julienne had muttered under her breath, opening a packet of biscuits and brewing a new cup of tea. She had helped Shelagh eat three biscuits as soon as she’d regained consciousness.

They’d not spoken of her being with child.

They hadn’t spoken at all.  

“But surely…” Patrick had started, unsure of whether Shelagh would allow him to embrace her again.

She’d clasped his hand. “I can’t sit there and apologise for loving you and Timothy with all my heart. I regret that it’ll cost me my friendship with her and the others, but I have made my bed and now I must lie in it.” She’d hooked the fingers of her free hand behind his ear, sending shivers crawling along his vertebrae. “I can’t act penitent when I’m not sorry.” Her eyes had shifted to a different kind of blue, and she’d kissed him, hard and passionate and desperate.

Now, they were in bed, safely ensconced in their bedroom.

It was late. Winter had kissed the windows and left frosty smears like lipstick on the panes. Outside, the wind howled and muttered.

“We’ve been married a little over three days now,” Patrick murmured against Shelagh’s neck. He lay behind her, one arm slung around her waist, his hand resting on her belly. He stroked the stretching skin with his thumb.

She was warm from their lovemaking. He nudged his knee between her legs. The hollows of her knees were slightly damp.

“It should’ve been over four months,” Shelagh murmured. She flipped on her other side so she could see him.

“Three days married in the eyes of church and state then,” Patrick corrected himself.

She gave him a small smile.

“Does it meet your expectations, Mrs. Turner?”

“Mostly, yes.” She curled against his chest and kissed the skin over his heart. “Though I sometimes feel I’ve done a selfish thing in letting you marry me,” she whispered.

A stab tore through his heart. “What do you mean?”

She titled her head back till her blue eyes met his hazel ones. “I’m about to ruin your reputation as surely as I’ve wrecked your professional relationship with the nuns.”

It was true that Sister Julienne had been extremely formal with him, and that he was somewhat unable to meet her eye at times, but there was no doubt in his mind that this would rectify itself eventually.

“Oh, darling,” Patrick breathed, cupping her face, “why would you think such a thing?”

“Because it is true. I can’t hide this,” – she touched her belly – “much longer, and then what will people say about us? They’re already gossiping so viciously…”

“And I am still the happiest man alive, Shelagh. I’ve always wanted more children. I wanted you to have my child long before it was appropriate for me to wish for that. The timing is hardly ideal, but…”

She placed a finger against his lips. “Oh, you darling man. This is all very sweet, but you won’t think like that forever. When people sneer at you, and request another doctor, you won’t think that all of this is a dream come true.”

“I’ve been thinking about that.” He propped himself up on his elbows. “What if we leave Poplar for a while? What if we go somewhere else for, say, a year? No one has to know that our marriage didn’t happen during the summer, during the night you came to me. You could have the baby in peace, without having to worry about what other people will say and think. We could go to Liverpool.” She opened her mouth, but he wasn’t done talking yet. “We could return to Poplar if you want, or we could stay there and build a new life together.”

“But for you to leave everything behind just for me, and for Timothy to have to give up his life because of something we did…”

“You gave up your life for us, Shelagh.”

She pushed his hair away from his face. “Yes, but that was my own choice. How can I demand that Timothy does the same for me?”

“He’s a young boy. He’ll adjust. If we stay here, and the gossip becomes worse…”

“He has his friends here. No, I don’t want to uproot him.” She shook her head. Her hair slid over her shoulders, gleaming like honey.

“Then maybe you can go to Scotland for a while? You could visit some family, and have the baby there. I could say you went away because you still had to recuperate…”

“There’s nothing there for me. You and Timothy are my family now,” she said quietly.

Patrick ducked down to kiss her. “I’m sorry,” he murmured against her cheek.

“You and this little one,” Shelagh said, taking his hand and placing it on her belly again. It curved gently, fitting against the palm of his hand as if he’d moulded it himself.

“I hate deceit, Patrick. I don’t want to lie. I’m afraid of what others will say, but I am not sorry for what we’ve done.” She smiled. “No matter what others think, I could never feel that what we did that night was sin. And if we go away, we’d be acting as if we think that this is something to be ashamed of, and that would be lying, wouldn’t it?”

He nodded.

“I don’t want to leave you now that I’ve found you,” she added.

Desire coiled inside of him. He pulled her against him as he kissed her. She sighed in his mouth and slung her legs around him, crossing her ankles.

“I won’t let you go now that I have you, and I won’t let anyone hurt you,” he whispered. He touched her breast.

She whimpered – her breasts had become extremely sensitive due to her pregnancy – and curved her spine. He grinned and ducked down to kiss her again.

She tilted her hips and rocked against him till he groaned. “This isn’t sin. This is love,” she whispered, and kissed the shell of his ear.

He shucked his pyjama trousers and pants. “It was always love,” he agreed, and pressed into her.

***

When they were done, Patrick kissed her forehead, anointing her.

“Hm,” she smiled, limbs already going slack with sleep.

“Shelagh?”

She opened her eyes to slits. “What?”

“Can you promise me something, darling?”

“What is it?”

He swallowed, then forced himself to be courageous. “Promise me you’ll go and speak to Sister Julienne. I’m all right with staying here, but if we remain in Poplar, you need friends.”

“She won’t forgive me for this, Patrick.”

“But she loves you.” _And you need all the love you can get against the gossipers of the East End._

“But if love was enough…”

“It was enough for us, wasn’t it?”

She was quiet for a little while, lines appearing between her brows as she thought. “I’ll try, all right?” she whispered.

He tucked her under his arm, placing her head on his chest. “Of course you will, my brave, brave girl.”

She smiled at that, and fell asleep still wearing that sweet smile.

Patrick held her tight, unable to sleep himself. “I’ll do whatever I can to make sure you’re happy and loved and safe,” he whispered. He sealed his promise with a kiss, just like before.

 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Instead of Fanfic Friday we’re going with Fanfic Thursday this week, because I won’t be here on Friday, Saturday, and Sunday. So, rather than let you guys wait for a long time, I’ll give you this week’s chapter a day early.

 

Shelagh Turner came to Nonnatus two weeks after she was married.

Sister Julienne hadn’t been at the wedding. She’d only known about it because Doctor Turner had to ask a locum to cover for him, and because of the wedding band he now wore on his hand. She was formal with him, painfully so. Whenever she saw him, shock and hurt and anger tore through her. She had thought him a good man, once. Hadn’t her sweet sister told her that he was nothing if not a good man?

 _But maybe they’d already seduced each other by that point,_ Sister Julienne thought wryly, and had to turn her face from him for fear that he’d see the waves of emotions wash over her countenance.

It had been easier not to talk about it. Wasn’t that why she had only spoken a handful of gentle words of reassurance to Shelagh after she’d fainted? She’d held her small, cold hand, and thought: _Maybe I’ll never hold it again, after this._

She almost reached for Shelagh’s hand, now that her former sister stood before her, looking pale and frail. Shelagh wore a jumper that was slightly too big for her, obscuring her growing belly. She touched the stretching flesh protectively. “Sister, I have to speak with you,” she said.

Sister Julienne hated herself for how desperate she was to hear the other woman talk. But what if there was an explanation for this bizarre situation they’d found themselves in? She gave a curt nod, and escorted Shelagh to her office.

She went to the kitchen to make them tea, trying to get her trembling hands under control.

 _Why am I so upset? I’ve seen countless of women who made love before marriage, and I never judged them._ She’d asked herself this question day after day, prayer after prayer, and was still no closer to an answer. She took a tablet with rattling china like loose teeth to her office.

“Do you drink milk in your tea again?” she asked.

Shelagh nodded. She cradled her cup with two hands, eyes trained on the pale liquid. “Doctor Turner thought it might be a good idea to go away for a little while,” she said.

“You didn’t have a honeymoon,  I suppose,” Sister Julienne said.

“It’s not that, Sister,” Shelagh whispered. “He thought it would be better for… us.” Her eyes flicked to her belly.

_Judging by her belly she’s five months along already. She must… It must have happened before the sanatorium, or maybe in her first weeks there. Oh, God, how could she stray from Your path so?_

“He said Liverpool might be a good place,” Shelagh continued.

“For how long?”

“A year, maybe two. Maybe for… longer.”

“Why have you come to me? You have your husband now to ask for advice.” She had to look at her hands to make sure they were still flesh and bone; her voice had been so cold she’d been afraid to find herself transformed into ice, or stone.

Shelagh looked up and bit her lip. There were violet smears under her eyes, like bruises. “I don’t want to go. It wouldn’t be right. We’d have to uproot Timothy. The poor boy has lived here all his life, and…”

“What do you think his friends and their relatives will say when they find out how far along you are?” Sister Julienne snapped.

Shelagh flinched. Her eyes shimmered liquid in the low light of the overhead lamp. “I’ve told Patrick I want to stay. He has agreed with my decision, but wanted me to talk to you. He wanted me to ask your support, because surely I don’t have enough strength of my own to go through all of this.”

 _So you didn’t come here of your own accord,_ Sister Julienne thought, hurt and bitterness coating her throat till her voice came out as a hoarse, strangled sound, not like her own voice at all. “I see.” She poured herself a new cup of tea so she wouldn’t have to look at her former sister. “I’m quite at a loss here, Mrs. Turner. I don’t know what you expect me to do.”

Shelagh bit her lip again. It was flaky, dry. “I’m not asking you to understand my decision, but… you told me I’d always have the support of Nonnatus. I wondered what had happened to that promise.”

Anger sizzled along Sister Julienne’s nerves. She curled her hands in her lap. “I made that promise when I thought you were merely in love with the doctor. If I had known you’d bedded him, had known he had seduced you…”

Two spots of colour burned in Shelagh’s cheeks. She looked like a painted doll. “That’s not how it happened.”

“Then tell me how it did happen. I’m trying to understand, but I can’t comprehend any of it. How could you, a nun, willingly break your vow of chastity?”

“I couldn’t…” She shook her head, hand splaying on her belly. She bit her lip again. It split. A drop of blood welled from the cut. She wiped it away with her handkerchief, crimson on white. “It was an act of love. I was hurting, and he was hurting, and we drew comfort from each other. I was a woman…”

“You were a nun! Your comfort should have come from God, and from your sisters.”

 _Is that why I’m so hurt? Because she chose Doctor Turner over me?_ Sister Julienne thought. She pushed it away.

“I’m not going to apologise for what happened,” Shelagh said. “I can’t apologise when I don’t feel sorry. I can’t…”

Sister Julienne blinked, trying not to feel as if she’d just been slapped. “You’re not sorry?” She laughed, throaty and horrible. “You’ve lied and deceived and broken every vow you’ve sworn to uphold, and you’re not sorry? You are not the woman I thought you were, then. It seems you’ve deceived me in more ways than one. I always thought Sister Bernadette a good person. Shelagh Turner, however, seems to be… very proud.”

Shelagh’s liquid eyes froze over. “I didn’t choose the path you thought out for me. I’m sorry if I hurt you with that decision, but I’m not sorry for loving Patrick and Timothy. I’m not sorry about this child. It was love. I thought that you, of all people, would understand. I thought I could at least draw strength from you.”

“What do you think this will do to Nonnatus’ reputation? It’s not just you I have to think about. It seems to me you have become very selfish over these past few months,” Sister Julienne growled.

“You helped dozens and dozens of unmarried women have their children!”

“But none of them were nuns.” _None of them were you._

“No, but some of them were teachers, or daughters of clergymen, and…”

“You don’t have to tell me my resumé,” Sister Julienne snapped.

“He that is without sin among you, let him first cast a stone,” Shelagh quoted, wringing her handkerchief between her fingers.  Another drop of blood welled from her cut lip. It was very vivid against her pale lips.

“Don’t you dare talk to me about what the Lord said!” Sister Julienne spat, voice strange and pinched. “You lost that right when you decided to have… improper relations with Doctor Turner!”

Shelagh coloured a little. “That still doesn’t give you the right to judge me. You’re not my Mother Superior anymore. You are not my mother!”

“No, but I thought I was your friend! It seems I was mistaken.”

Shelagh pressed her handkerchief against her face, wiping away the blood from her mouth and the tears from her cheeks. “I see. I see how you’ve come to think about me.” She stood and placed her cup back on its saucer with trembling hands. “It was a mistake to come here. I see you want to wash your hands of me.”

_No. I want you to come back to me like you were._

_I want to stop spouting my venom._

_I want to hold your hand again._

Sister Julienne couldn’t speak.

“Thank you for the tea,” Shelagh murmured, putting on her gloves and coat. “I don’t think I’ll come here again. We might go to Liverpool after all.”

 _Stay! I’m sorry,_ Sister Julienne’s heart cried out. “You must do what you think fit,” she said. “After all, I’m not your spiritual mentor anymore.”

“No,” Shelagh whispered. Then, she was gone.

Sister Julienne folded her hands. She tried to pray to keep her tears at bay, but they came anyway. Her feelings would not be denied, no matter how hard she tried.

_Maybe that was what it was like for Sister Bernadette. Maybe it was something bigger than her._

But surely she could’ve waited till she’d renounced her vows? And why had she not sought comfort amongst her sisters?

_And now she never will, thanks to your harsh words._

“But she didn’t even want to apologise,” Sister Julienne whispered.

_You once thought it wise to reserve judgement at all costs. You once thought that no matter what had passed between your sister and Doctor Turner, she was still the same person. You once thought it was not your place as a nun to condemn._

_Maybe you’re struggling as much with parts of the religious life as Sister Bernadette did._

“I just want her back,” Sister Julienne said, “But how can I get her back after all we’ve just said?”

_Maybe she’s not the only one who dances with pride._

She buried her face in her hands and cried.

 


	9. Chapter 9

**Thanks to @purple-roses-words-and-love for betaing.**

The days started to lengthen again. Spring became a promise rather than a dream, as did their child.

Patrick loved little more than to sit with his wife on the sofa, tucking her under his arm, using his free hand to caress her belly. Shelagh needed his warmth, his presence. She was strong, but the incessant gossip and stares had left her raw and hurting. She’d taken to shopping somewhere far from the East End, where people didn’t know her. For the rest of the time, she mostly kept inside. She’d clean and clean and clean in an effort to keep her hands busy. If she wasn’t cooking or scrubbing or washing, she was sewing clothes for the baby.

Timothy played the piano for her. “The baby likes it,” he’d said when Patrick had asked him about it. Then, with deep lines between his eyebrows: “It won’t always be like this, will it?”

* * *

 

“Like what, son?”

“People won’t always talk badly about us, will they? They won’t always shun Mum and refuse to come to tea when she asks them, right?”

Patrick had clapped a hand on Tim’s shoulder and squeezed it. “Do you remember when Mummy died? We thought we’d be sad forever then, didn’t we? And that wasn’t true. We’ll pull through. We always do. Till then, we must try to help each other in any way we can.”

Timothy had hugged him, then, all angle and limb.

 _We can still decide to leave Poplar if things don’t work out,_ Patrick had thought. Shelagh had flirted with the idea after her disastrous conversation with Sister Julienne, but had ultimately rejected it. Still: they could go to a place where no one knew them, were patients didn’t make bawdy jokes or snide comments or only allowed him to treat them with great reluctance. They were not all like that, of course, but the ones who were had started to grate on his nerves. He had thought all this would leave him oddly exposed and vulnerable; instead, it seemed to make his skin hard, like a shell, like armour. He didn’t like being hard very much.

It was more difficult with the nurses, and with the nuns especially. They’d reached some kind of frosty cease-fire for the sake of their patients, but there was none of the friendly chit-chat from before. Nurse Miller gave him a shy smile every now and again, and Nurse Franklin still made him tea, but they were subdued and never lingered longer than necessary. Nurse Brown was still recovering from her C-section, which meant that there was little time for idle chitchat, anyway. It was for the best, he supposed; he didn’t want them to strain their relationship with the nuns for his sake.

These were things he could not say to Shelagh, not after she’d confessed how afraid she was he’d come to regret their marriage because of the blemish it caused on his reputation. He loved her fiercely.

_But I had hoped…_

For what, exactly?

_For Shelagh and her former religious sisters to reconcile. She needs them, and I think they need her, too._

Sister Monica Joan had been more confused lately, taking his sleeve when he visited and asking him where he had taken her sweet sister. “I miss her voice so,” she’d say, close to tears.

Sister Evangelina just huffed at whatever he said, and took petty revenge on him by giving him mouldy cake and stone-cold tea whenever she had to offer him something. Her attitude hadn’t surprised Patrick; there being stale cake in Nonnatus with a prowling Sister Monica Joan had.

Sister Julienne looked pale and drawn, not like herself at all.

When he had to attend Mrs. Renley during a long and difficult labour, she had been as focused as she always was. However, when the poor woman had lost so much blood that the sheets were stained more red than white, and the ambulance had come to take her to hospital, Sister Julienne had seemed to flounder and falter.

“This wasn’t supposed to happen! It wasn’t meant to go like this!” Sister Julienne had exclaimed. She’d buried her face in her hands.

Patrick had offered her his handkerchief. She’d glared at it, but had taken it and wiped her eyes with it anyway. Shelagh had embroidered a rose on it, and a little cross. “To keep you safe,” she’d said as she’d tucked it in his pocket.

“I’m sorry, Doctor. Do forgive an old silly woman,” Sister Julienne had said.

“There’s nothing to forgive.”

She’d looked at him strangely, then. “Thank you,” she’d said in a broken whisper, clutching his handkerchief with one hand and her wooden pendant in the other.

 _Come and have tea with us,_ he’d wanted to say. _Come and speak with Shelagh. She misses you, and I think you miss her, too._ But she’d taken her bike and pedalled away from him, his handkerchief still clutched in her hand.

 _Maybe I was wrong,_ he thought, lighting a cigarette. _Maybe I made the wrong diagnosis; maybe this is a wound that will never heal._

But there was so much love between Sister Julienne and his Shelagh… Pride was probably in the way, or the fear of getting hurt, or Nonnatus’ reputation, or a mixture of all three.

He sighed, and ground the cigarette out on the brick wall. He looked at his watch. If he hurried, he could go to the surgery and change into a fresh pair of trousers, a pair that didn’t smell like amniotic fluid and blood, before going on his afternoon rounds. He’d just delivered Mrs. Hope’s baby boy, and both mother and child were doing well.

Sister Evangelina hadn’t been as curt with him today as before, either. Ever since his marriage with Shelagh, she’d acted as if his presence in the delivery room was a personal affront. Today, she’d been cold but professional.

Patrick lit another cigarette. His fingertips were slightly yellow with nicotine.

“You should eat rather than smoke,” Sister Evangelina said.

Patrick almost dropped his cigarette. He brought it to his mouth and inhaled deeply. “You did very well, Sister. I wasn’t actually needed,” he said.

She snorted, then leaned against the wall next to him.

 _I feel as if I have to ask her if she wants a puff from my cigarette._ This thought was indecent and hilarious enough to make him smile.

“What’s so funny?” Sister Evangelina snapped, taking out a wrapped sandwich. She tore a big chunk out of it with her teeth.

“Just thinking about Shelagh,” Patrick said.

“How’s the little wife? Is everything going well with the…?” She patted her belly.

“Yes,” Patrick said, doing his best not to sound surprised. “Yes, she’s doing all right, as is Baby.”

“She’s over eight months now?”

“Yes.”

“Well, you tell her she will always get a midwife from Nonnatus when she goes into labour. She should call for us.” Sister Evangelina’s eyes glittered something fierce as she spoke.

“She might not feel comfortable with that. We’ve already decided that I’ll be there, since I…” Patrick started.

“Poppycock and balderdash,” Sister Evangelina snorted. She turned her face towards him, pointing her finger at his chest. “You’re her husband, not her doctor, and husbands don’t belong in the delivery room. What she needs is a woman she can trust.”

Patrick dropped his cigarette. He stepped on it with his heel, pressing it flat against the pavement. “I’d ask Sister Julienne, but they are not exactly on good terms now. It seems that Shelagh is not on good terms with anyone at Nonnatus currently,” he said, unable to keep a faint accusatory tone from lacing his voice.

“I never thought her to be the type of girl to get her head turned by a man, and I certainly didn’t expect this,” Sister Evangelina said, touching her belly again, “but we all love Shelagh dearly, Doctor Turner. Don’t ever doubt it.”

“I don’t doubt it. I just wonder if it’ll be enough,” he confessed. Love alone had not been enough to keep Marianne with him…

“Of course it is enough. Love is all there is,” she scoffed.

“There doesn’t seem to be much love between Shelagh and Sister Julienne right now,” Patrick said.

“Where in the name of the Lord did you ever get an idea like that?” she said, eyebrows travelling very high up her forehead. “They’re acting like this because they love each other to bits. Shelagh is just a stubborn Scot, and Sister Julienne is just as bad.”

“I think they’re both afraid of getting hurt,” Patrick said, shoving his hands in his pockets. The wind was still damnably cold.

“Of course they are. Only the ones we love can hurt us. Surely you must’ve figured that out by now, Doctor,” she said.

“I must get on, or I’ll be late for my rounds,” Patrick said. He gave her a small smile. “Thank you, Sister. This conversation means a lot to me.”

She snorted, and wiped her hands on her habit. “Just take care of your wife. She’s far too precious to hurt. And I don’t mean in the way you took care of her before. I do know how to count, you know.”

Patrick coloured crimson.

“Yes, well…”

“She was too young, far too young. Allowing such a pretty young thing to become a nun was waiting for a disaster to happen,” Sister Evangelina muttered, shaking her head. She walked to her bike, got on with a grunt, and pedalled away.

 _Miracles never cease,_ Patrick thought. He rubbed his eyes, then got into his car and drove to the surgery. He had a fresh set of clothes there in case the ones he wore got soiled. His mind was on his trousers when he walked in. His secretary brutally snapped him out of it.

“Doctor Turner, your wife called,” she said, drumming an unsteady tattoo on her desk with a pen.

“She called?” Patrick said, heart speeding up.

“She said she went into labour,” she said. She looked like a little girl as she twisted her wedding ring on her finger. Patrick was sure her parents would never have consented to her staying on had she not already been married.

 _Into labour… but Shelagh is not nine months yet._ His palms turned sweaty. A nervous energy coiled in his stomach and sizzled through his muscles. “She can’t be,” he said.

“Well, she seemed very sure of it when she called,” the woman fretted.

“When did she call?”

“At nine. She said she’d tried to call before, but there was no answer. I wasn’t here yet then…”

He’d been gone early, and had left her sleeping soundly. Or so he thought. He looked at his watch again. Almost two.

“Shit,” he cursed under his breath. He carded a hand through his hair. “Cancel my appointments. I must go home.”

“But..”

“Please make sure there’s a locum covering for me. I’d like to take care of it myself, but…” He shrugged helplessly, his hand curling around his bag till his knuckles were whiter than porcelain.

“I understand,” his secretary said, giving him a small nod. “Go to your wife. She sounded like she needs you.”

Patrick turned around and ran.

 _I can’t believe I left her,_ he thought. His shirt stuck to his back. His hands and feet had become like sacks of snow, his bones little twigs. The car shuddered to life. “Come on,” he urged it. It groaned, then purred like a cat.

_She must be so scared, even with all her midwifery experience. And she’s alone, and has been alone for hours already. You could’ve been with her sooner if you hadn’t dawdled and smoked those cigarettes!_

He ran up the front steps, almost hurling himself against his front door. His hands were shaking so badly he scratched the lock. It took him three tries to open it.

“Shelagh?!” He thundered up the stairs as he called for her. “Shelagh, please answer me!” If she was hurt, if she was in pain…

It was not Shelagh who answered.

It was Sister Julienne.


	10. Chapter 10

**For some reason the chapter uploaded completely empty, with AO3 deleting my text as soon as I hit the 'post' button. This is a re-upload of chapter 10. Sorry about this, guys! I didn't notice it till bluemermaiid pointed it out to me (thank you!)**

The contractions started in the night. Shelagh felt them, decided they were probably Braxton Hicks, and forced herself to go back to sleep. When she woke again, Patrick had already left for work, leaving a hastily-scribbled note in his illegible handwriting.

Shelagh made breakfast for herself and Timothy, doing her best to ignore the pains in her lower back.

“Are you all right?” Timothy asked her, frowning. The way he knit his brows was exactly the same as Patrick’s.

“Yes. Don’t worry about me. You must go to school,” she said, giving him a tight smile.

“You look pale.”

“Yes, well, your little brother or sister is not giving me much time to sleep,” Shelagh said, patting her belly. “Baby keeps moving around an awful lot.”

“That’s good,” Timothy said, spooning the last of his porridge into his mouth. “And it’s normal, isn’t it? For babies to move around a lot in the last few months?”

“It’s perfectly ordinary,” Shelagh agreed. Another sharp twinge of pain sizzled along her nerves, robbing her of the breath she needed to say anything more. She bit the inside of her cheek so as not to make a sound.

_What if these are real contractions?_

She looked at her watch, counting the seconds to see how long the pain lasted.

_Forty seconds. That’s not good._

“Do you mind… if I don’t walk you to school?” she asked. She hadn’t done it often, not in the last few months, but still…

“I’ll be fine, Mum,” Timothy said. He took his coat and bag, hesitated on the threshold, and turned back to give her a quick peck on the cheek. “You’ll call Dad if something is wrong, won’t you?”

“Of course, dearest,” she said, smiling that strange, tight smile again, keeping it up till Timothy was no longer in sight. Then, she let her mask slip, and went to the phone immediately, trying not to whimper as another stitch tore through her.

 _Five minutes since the last one. I need Patrick,_ she thought as she rung the surgery.

But Patrick was not there, and his assistant had no idea when he’d be back.

 _Don’t panic. You’re a midwife, for crying out loud, and these are probably just Braxton Hicks,_ she admonished herself.

She made herself another cup of tea and forced the sweet brew down. To calm herself, she took her Bible, and read some of her favourite passages, singing a hymn or two. There was a familiarity in the words, in the steady cadence of her own voice, even if she was rather short of breath these days.

She rested the heavy book on her bump, stroking the soft leather with one finger, her stretched flesh with another. The pain had eased a little. Shelagh smiled. “What’s all this fuss about hm?” she said, looking at her belly. She splayed her hand on her stomach . “It’s a bit early for you to come out, you know. Besides, you’re perfectly all right where you are. Not to say I don’t want to meet you, of course. Your father and big brother would like to meet you, too. Not yet, though.”

The baby kicked against her palm. She patted the spot softly. “I’ll tell you a little secret: I like having you so near me.” _I can keep you safe._

Shelagh did not like admitting it, but she was terrified of giving birth. There were so many things that could go wrong, and she, in her capacity as a midwife, had seen almost all of the worst-case scenarios first hand.

Though a part of her ached to meet this child, this new soul that was part of her and part of Patrick and part of something all its own, there was another part that ached with the knowledge that this baby would have to be ripped from her body.

“Not yet, though,” she repeated.

She stood so she could clear the table. Something inside her popped, sounding like Timothy cracking his knuckles before sitting down to play the piano. Water gushed between her legs, soaking her socks and slippers. She stared at the glistening kitchen tiles in horror.

“I said not yet,” she whispered.

Another contraction rippled through her. She clutched the counter with white-knuckled hands, panting through it.

_Every five minutes, and they last roughly a minute. There’s no denying it, Shelagh: these are not Braxton Hicks._

As soon as it was over, she wiped the amniotic fluid from the floor, then made her way to the phone again. She called Granny Parker first, asking the other woman if she could pick Timothy up from school; she could not have her stepson coming home whilst she was still trying to give birth.

Then, she called the surgery. Mrs. Feather, Patrick’s secretary, again told her that he was currently not available.

“Please tell Doctor Turner he has to come home as soon as possible,” Shelagh said, doing her best not to sound desperate. “I think I’ve gone into labour.”

She almost dropped the horn as she hung up. She pressed a hand against her mouth, and sobbed.

What was she to do? She could call for an ambulance to bring her to hospital, but what was the point? She was not in desperate need of that kind of medical attention; she would take up a precious bed that could be used for someone who really needed it. She could suffer through her confinement alone, waiting for Patrick, but what if something went wrong and she could not reach the phone in time?

There was only one thing she could do: call Nonnatus.

Shelagh picked the phone up with trembling hands. Who would answer? Did it matter?

_But I can’t face them. They’ll judge me, and I…_

A contraction spasmed through her, sending little shocks of pain through her system.

“All right, all right,” she murmured, patting her belly.

She dialled the number, trying to keep her voice steady so the operator would not hear how scared she was.

_At least I know the people at Nonnatus. I wouldn’t want to go to hospital, to be treated by strangers. Though maybe anonymity is a blessing in my case._

But she didn’t believe that, not really.

The phone rang once, twice, three times.

“Be strong,” she told herself, glancing at her Bible. The book lay open on the kitchen table, sprawling like a sleeping child.

“Nonnatus house, midwife speaking.”

Shelagh pressed her forehead against the wall, doing her best not to cry. She could not prevent a sob from bubbling from her lungs as relief flooded her system.

“Sister Julienne? It’s Shelagh. My waters broke. I tried to call Patrick, but he’s on a case, and I… I’m so afraid…”

Silence.

“Sister?” she whispered.

“Don’t worry, my dear. I’m on my way.”

***

Shelagh had gone to the bedroom by the time Sister Julienne arrived, and changed into clothes not reeking of amniotic fluid. The nun knew where to find the spare key, and let herself in.

Shelagh burst into tears as soon as her former sister entered the room.

Sister Julienne hugged her, cupping her head and dropping a kiss on her temple.

Shelagh curled her hand in her sister’s habit, groaning as another contraction reduced her world to simple sensation. When it was done, Sister Julienne guided her to the bed. “How often?” she asked.

“Every five minutes for over an hour now,” Shelagh said. Suddenly shy, she looked at the pastel sheets on the bed, straightening a corner.

Sister Julienne took out her pinard, and carried out all necessary examinations. “Baby is doing well, Shelagh. He has a strong heartbeat.”

 _Thank God for small mercies,_ Shelagh thought.

Sister Julienne tucked her pinard back in her bag. “You’re not fully dilated, though. I think it’ll be a while yet.” She folded her hands and played with her ring, looking at the golden band.

Shelagh took her sister’s hand and squeezed it. “Sister, we must talk,” she said. They couldn’t sit in silence for hours, the air thick with things unsaid. In the end, their words would choke them, if the air didn’t become unbreathable first.

Sister Julienne looked at her with wet eyes, but didn’t speak, giving Shelagh the change to start.

Another contraction took her breath away. She did her best not to moan, but the pain was intense. When it was done, she was panting a little. “I need to move,” she murmured. To sit here, to have Sister Julienne stare at her, would not make it easier to speak.

“We could walk around the room, if you prefer,” Sister Julienne said. She helped Shelagh up, supporting her with a strong arm, holding her hand. They took small steps, circling the bed till they came upon the wall. Then, they had to turn around, and move in the opposite way, walking a horse-shoe pattern again and again as they spoke.

Shelagh wetted her lips with her tongue. “I’m not sorry for loving Patrick, Sister. Our love is… it’s beautiful, and I’m never ashamed to love.” Baby turned inside her. She stopped walking and inhaled deeply before continuing. “But I am sorry for all the heartache it caused. I never meant to smear Nonnatus’ reputation, but I fear I did.” She wiped her cheeks with her sleeve. “I never meant to cause a rift between us, either,” she whispered. She looked up, trying to read her sister’s face, but her glasses had misted over.

Sister Julienne plucked them from her face and placed them on the nightstand. “Best not wear them. They’ll only slide from your nose later on, and get smeared with all kinds of things if we’re not careful,” she murmured.

“Sister,” Shelagh pleaded.

Sister Julienne turned to her. Her face was vague, undefined, as if Shelagh was looking at it through a window splattered with rain. “I never doubted your love for him, Shelagh,” Sister Julienne said, “But…” She sighed, and rubbed her eyes with her free hand. They resumed their walking. “At the sanatorium, you told me you were a nun, yet you already had… improper relations with Doctor Turner.”

 _Just once, when we were both hurting so much,_ Shelagh thought.

They had to suspend their conversation till another contraction had passed. The pain was horrible, and left Shelagh sweating and trembling.

“I _was_ a nun, Sister, I really was!” she said as soon as she could speak again, “But then I changed, and it became only a part of who I was, and no longer defined me entirely.” Confused, she shook her head. “I should not have broken my vow. It was not a decent thing to do.” _And yet I feel as if it had become something almost inevitable._ When she had gone to Patrick that night, when she was in his arms, it had not felt wrong, or sinful; it had felt as if that was the only proper place for her to be.

“The Lord works in mysterious ways,” Sister Julienne said, voice tremulous. “I know you would not have done what you did if it wasn’t for love, but I had hoped you would have come to your sisters for comfort. Why didn’t you?”

“Because I needed someone who wouldn’t talk about religion. His lack of faith in God made me understand my own belief in Him better than anything else could have done.”

Sister Julienne sighed. “Maybe that’s partly why I am hurt: my pride has been bruised. I thought you would always come to me, and you didn’t. I thought I knew everything about you, but I was wrong.”

“Nobody can ever know all there is to know about a person,” Shelagh said.

“I know that, now.”

They were silent for a moment, walking up and down the room. Shelagh moaned her way through another contraction, doing her best not to cry.

_It is so bad already…_

“There is pain relief I can give you,” Sister Julienne said.

“I know,” Shelagh said, loosening her grip on Sister Julienne’s hand. She stopped walking, and looked at her former sister. “I missed you terribly,” she confessed, the tears that had gathered during the contraction spilling from her eyes.

Sister Julienne swallowed audibly. “And I missed you, too.”

“I want us to be friends again, because… well, because I don’t think I can go through this if I don’t have a friend at my side.”

“Then rest assured, my dear girl, because I am your friend.”

Another contraction. Shelagh grabbed hold of the bed’s headboard as pain rippled through her. She sobbed. “I’m so afraid, Sister,” she confessed.

“I know. But you’ve been afraid before, and you always conquered it. Nevertheless, I shall get you some pethidine to help with the pain.” She studied Shelagh’s face. “But first some water. Your lips are chapped.”

She went to the kitchen. Shelagh sat down on the edge of the bed, rocking to make the pain bearable.

A loud bang shuddered through the house. Someone thundered up the stairs, taking them two or three a step judging by the sound. “Shelagh? Shelagh, please answer me!”

“Patrick?” she whispered.

Before she could raise her voice, Sister Julienne said: “Doctor Turner?”

Shelagh tried to get to her feet, but another contraction made her sink down and grit her teeth.

Her husband’s and ex-sister’s voices came closer, till they were just beyond the bedroom door.

“Please let me in, Sister Julienne! I know you don’t approve of husbands in the birthing room, but…”

“I’m not objecting to your presence, Doctor Turner, but I am objecting to you wearing soiled clothing in the presence of a patient,” Sister Julienne said.

Patrick fell quiet. Then, he said: “Oh. Right. I’ll put on something else, and wash my hands.”

Sister Julienne came back with a glass of water. Shelagh drank it greedily. She hadn’t realised how thirsty she was. “Will you let Patrick be here with me?” she asked.

“It is unusual,” Sister Julienne said.

“I need him by my side,” Shelagh said.

“I know.” Sister Julienne said, smiling a little. She took Shelagh’s hand and squeezed it. “I’ll give you some pethidine. I think you need that, too.” Sister Julienne was preparing the syringe when Shelagh’s womb contracted again. The pain made her turn her focus inwards. Her nightgown lay plastered against her back. Her hair was like damp fur in her neck. She combed a hand through it. Her fingers trembled.

But then, Patrick was by her side, holding her hand, rubbing her lower back. She rested her face in the crook of his neck, smelling his sweat and cigarettes and aftershave. When the contraction faded, she sighed, and squeezed his hand. His wedding ring bit in her skin.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured in her hair.

“You couldn’t know.”

“But still. You must’ve been so scared…”

“How could I be scared with Sister Julienne here?” Shelagh said, and smiled at her sister. “How could I be scared now that you are both here?”

It was true; she was no longer afraid. She patted her belly. “Time to meet Baby.”

***

The pain was still agony, but she had Patrick to hold on to, to ground her. Sister Julienne’s voice was clear as she gave encouragement after encouragement, instruction after instruction.

When it was time to push, Shelagh clung to Patrick, doing her best not to cry. “I’m so tired,” she murmured.

He kissed her brow. “I know, darling, but it’s almost over now.”

“It won’t be long, Shelagh, I promise. Now, you must push,” Sister Julienne said, patting her knee.

She bit her lip and forced herself to do what her former sister told her. After all, she could almost hold her baby, could almost see its face and determine how much it looked like the little face she’d dreamed up for herself. Excitement took hold of her, drowning her tiredness.

She did her best not to dig her nails in Patrick’s hand as she pushed, did her best not to grunt. He planted a kiss just below her ear.

“The head is born,” Sister Julienne said.

 _Thank God,_ Shelagh thought. She wanted to sink back, wanted to let Patrick’s thighs cradle her, his arms her blanket, his chest her pillow, but it wasn’t over yet.

“That’s my girl,” Patrick whispered. She smiled, and interlaced her fingers with his.

“Just one more,” Sister Julienne said.

Shelagh pushed, her toes curling into the sheets. Baby slithered out of her, its head cupped by Sister Julienne’s hand. “It’s a girl,” the nun said. The baby opened her mouth and cried.

“Can I hold her?” Shelagh asked, stretching her arms to her whimpering daughter.

Sister Julienne cut the cord, then handed her the baby. The child was slick and warm, her eyes the midnight blue of all new-borns. Patrick’s arms were heavy and warm around her. He stroked the baby’s head with his fingers.

“Hello. You were eager to meet us,” Shelagh whispered.

“We were eager to meet you, too,” Patrick said.

Shelagh leaned against him, cradling her daughter against her chest, dropping kisses against her damp, silken head. “All worth it,” she murmured. The pain, the heartbreak, the isolation…

“Placenta is out, all in one piece,” Sister Julienne said.

“Good.” Patrick kissed Shelagh’s face again. “Must give you a sponge bath, dear.”

“Not yet,” Shelagh said. She didn’t want this moment to end. Here, she was holding her child, was cradled by her husband, had Sister Julienne near. It felt like a spell that could be broken the way cobwebs could be brushed away.

“What are you going to call her?” Sister Julienne asked.

“Angela,” Shelagh said, “Angela Julienne.” She looked up. Her former sister’s face was tight with emotion, her eyes sparkling with unshed tears.

“Are you sure?”

“Completely,” Shelagh said, looking at her child again.

“She does look like an Angela,” Patrick quipped, tracing the gentle curve of his daughter’s skull with his thumb.

Shelagh twisted her head so she could kiss him. Ever since that fateful night at the surgery, she’d wanted to kiss him all the time. It was a desire that would never fade.

 _Love,_ she thought, the word becoming all consuming.

_It’s because it’s love._

_And now, I will forever realise how lucky I am._

_I will be happy._


End file.
